


bend bridges, mend bones

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is a Good Alpha, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, How Do I Tag, Hurt!Stiles, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monsters, Self-Sacrifice, Sexual Tension, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They burst through the portal in a gust of stale air and violet light, landing hard on the outskirts of a swamp. Stiles feels his knees buckle, both from the magic required to keep the portal open and from the force of their landing, but he grits his teeth, determined to stay standing in the presence of Derek Hale and his pack. Christ, it would be just his luck to rocket through his own portal at neck-breaking speeds and collide face-first with a puddle of sticky, disgusting mud.</p><p>Thankfully that doesn’t happen, which is good because Stiles can’t really afford to add useless to the list of things that Mage’s are; untrustworthy cowards, meddlers, <em>monsters</em>.</p><p>(In which there's an awful lot of fighting, people learn to trust people, and Stiles saves the day. Repeatedly. Over and over again. And he would like some <em>credit</em>, goddamnit, Derek.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	bend bridges, mend bones

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy this, it really got away from me! I don't know how to describe it, so I guess just read it, and I hope you like it. Some mature themes but nothing too triggering, I don't think. Lots of swear words, Derek is an ass, Stiles is a little shit, all the usual stuff. Woop! Enjoy!

They burst through the portal in a gust of stale air and violet light, landing hard on the outskirts of a swamp. Stiles feels his knees buckle, both from the magic required to keep the portal open and from the force of their landing, but he grits his teeth, determined to stay standing in the presence of Derek Hale and his pack. Christ, it would be just his luck to rocket through his _own_ portal at neck-breaking speeds and collide face-first with a puddle of sticky, disgusting mud.

Thankfully that doesn’t happen, which is good because Stiles can’t really afford to add _useless_ to the list of things that Mage’s are; untrustworthy cowards, meddlers, _monsters_.

Derek still looks at him like he fucked up though, his lip curled with disdain and a touch of cool arrogance. Stiles resists the urge to set the mans’ perfectly styled hair on fire with a flick of his wrist. Instead, he cuts the connection to the portal, watching the violet light fade into mist that eventually disperses, and then he pastes an annoyingly bright smile on his face and grins at Derek until the other man turns away, rolling his eyes disparagingly.

“Erica, you’re on first patrol, so set up a perimeter,” Derek says firmly, pointing slightly to the left of a large clump of swamp trees with his sword. Erica salutes him, sheathes her dagger – the flashy gold one that she favours – and then stalks off with a swish of blonde hair.

“Isaac, stay with the equipment, Boyd, come with me and scope out the area.”

Orders given, Derek starts to walk off. Stiles makes a small noise of protest and throws his arms out to the side.

“What am I, chopped liver?” he shouts at Derek’s rigid back.

“What part of ‘equipment’ did you not understand?” Derek turns around to glare at him, walking backwards with irritating ease. “Stay where you are and don’t try anything. Isaac, if he _does_ try anything, feel free to use your sword. _Liberally_.”

Isaac smirks until Derek’s out of sight, and Stiles rolls his eyes and wiggles his fingers in Isaac’s face.

“Make one move towards me, cherub, and I’ll burn those perfect curls right off of your head,” Stiles warns him cheerily. Isaac’s smirk turns a bit more forced at the nickname, and he whirls around and starts arranging their assortment of leather bags, fiddling with the buckles and helping himself to some water. He doesn’t offer any to Stiles, but that’s hardly a surprise.

Stiles can take care of himself, anyway. He takes a deep breath, moves his index finger in a perfect circle in front of his face, and a thin stream of clear water appears in thin-air, angled towards his open mouth.

Isaac is on him immediately, eyes glowing gold. Fangs snag on his bottom lip, growing longer and longer, and his claws dig painfully into Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles refuses to let the pain show on his face, despite the scent of blood that fills the air. Stiles feels a flash of fear, and then reminds himself that he’s seen worse, _felt_ worse. Werewolves don’t scare him.

“Get the fuck off of me,” Stiles hisses, shoving Isaac away. It doesn’t do much to move him, since Stiles’ strengths lie outside the realm of muscles and physicality, but it does get Isaac to stop turning him into a pincushion. The claws retract, and Isaac snarls out a demand for an explanation.

“It’s water,” Stiles explains slowly, like Isaac is a toddler asking about basic math. “See? It’s exactly the same as the stuff you were drinking a minute ago, before you shit yourself over nothing and spilled it everywhere. Nothing deadly about water, not in this amount, anyway.”

He swirls his finger again and the water stops flowing. Isaac stares him down like he’s waiting for an explosion, or a curse, so Stiles rolls his eyes and ignores him, bends down to tie his bootlaces as he waits for the Hale pack to return. He pretends that there aren’t pinpricks of blood staining his white shirt, pretends that he won’t be spending the night in stiff silence in the solitude of his tent, eating food that he’s gathered himself and avoiding the pack’s hateful gazes.

It’s been three days since they left Beacon, three days since Stiles last actually _enjoyed_ a warm meal, rather than eating out of necessity, since he felt safe enough to sleep properly. Three days since his father last clapped him on the shoulder in the secret servant’s passageways of the castle, where no one could glimpse the current King saying a worried farewell to a strange commoner, to a _Mage,_ of all things. Three days, and it already feels like years. Stiles wishes, miserably, that he was back home in his father’s library, the one he’d built especially for Stiles when they realised that things were going to be different, after Claudia Stilinski’s death.

And then he thinks of Scott and the sadness turns to determination. Scott is out here somewhere, and for some reason, he can’t get home. He’s lost or hurt or held captive, and he can’t go home, so neither will Stiles, not without his brother. It wouldn’t be home without Scott, anyway, not really.

“I’ll find you,” Stiles murmurs to himself. He lets himself pretend, for a moment, that Scott can hear him, wherever he is. Maybe, if Stiles is lucky, the wind will carry the words to his brother. Less improbable things have happened. “I promise, Scott, I’ll do whatever it takes to find you. I’ll bring you home.”

*

On the fifth day of searching, they get lost, deep within the swamp. Stiles casts a ripple of searching magic over the land and something pings on his radar, a disruptive, _angry_ force, buried deep beneath the ground. He inches towards a large, sprawling tree and places his hands on it. There’s magic inside of it, dark and evil, and he grimaces as he draws away. Sticky webs of black magic cling to his wrist and he shakes them off hastily, nerves getting the better of him.

Derek comes up close, looming over Stiles’ shoulder, grimacing. Stiles has to fight not to move away, but he knows Derek won’t touch him. None of them will.

“It smells like rancid cheese and meat,” Boyd says, disgusted. Stiles can hear Isaac retching in the background.

“Something’s rotting down there,” Derek agrees. “Is it under the tree?”

He directs the words at Stiles, but doesn’t look at him. Stiles snorts and moves back, and Derek steps back too, like they’re dancing, careful not to let their shoulders brush.

“I’m not contagious,” Stiles snaps into the uncomfortable silence. He can feel the uneasy stares, and he knows he won’t win this one with words – besides, it’s not like he actually _wants_ these werewolves to touch him, he just doesn’t want to be treated like something diseased and disgusting.

Derek crosses his arms impatiently, still waiting for an answer.

It’s under the ground,” Stiles sighs, dusting off his hands. “The tree’s just an entry point, like a trap door, I suppose, but there’s a system of caves under the ground, like tunnels. And nothing’s rotting down there, actually.”

Derek eyes him sharply. “You might be the expert on rot and death, Mage, but I won’t trust you when it comes to scents.”

Stiles sets his jaw. “You wouldn’t trust me when it comes to _anything_ , but I’m not lying. You can’t go down there. There’s dark magic all over this tree, and like I said, this is just the _entry_ point. Whatever’s down there is a thousand times more powerful than the trail it’s left on this tree.”

“It’s not the only scent, though,” Erica points out. “That’s the whole reason we’re here, tracking your buddy, following the King’s orders. What, you think we’re in this swamp for fun? This isn’t a holiday. The scent we’re tracking goes down there, I can smell it, so we have to go down there.”

“The scent you’re tracking is probably a trap, you do realise this, don’t you?”

“Can you open the tree?” Derek asks, cutting over him, although it’s not really a question so much as an order.

 “Hmm?” Stiles makes a show of looking around, eyes wide. “Oh, were you talking to me? Only, I couldn’t _quite_ tell, what with you staring at literally anything but my face. You’re not going to contract some kind of disease just by _looking_ at me, jerk.”

“Open the tree,” Derek growls out. His fists clench at his sides, and Stiles thinks he can see blood trickle through his knuckles, and he remembers that Scott does that sometimes, when he’s angry, to keep himself from turning, and yes, Stiles an idiot sometimes, but he prides himself on not having a death wish.

“I’ll open it,” Stiles says, “but mark my words, you’ll regret it. There could be anything down there, a wraith or a goblin or a trickster. Whatever it is, it’s not _happy_ , I can tell you that now, and it’s going to be even more pissed when you invade it’s home.”

Isaac sighs. “We’re strong enough to take it, whatever it is. Just open the damn tree.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, turns to look calculatingly at the tree, and then plunges one hand into the trunk. It sinks in easily through the rotting bark, fingers grasping at moss and mould. It’s kind of gross, and Stiles has always been a bit squeamish, but he manages to keep his feet as he gropes around until his nails scrape against the other side of the trunk. There’s a knot there, in the wood, and he grimaces, stretching forward, moving up onto his tip-toes, and then he _twists_ the knot to the left. There’s a grinding sound, and then the tree starts to open up.

He rips his arm away and gags as more webs of dark magic kiss his fingers. He leans down and wipes his hands on the grass frantically, and the magic sinks into the earth, dissolving. When he glances up, there’s an arch carved into the trunk of the tree, where Stiles’ hand had previously been. It’s just large enough for a man to crawl through.

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says, plopping back against the grass. “It’s still a stupid idea, though. You’re walking right into a trap. I thought you guys were supposed to have at least _one_ brain between the four of you.”

Derek pays him no mind. Boyd goes in first, hunkering down to fit through the gap, and then Isaac awkwardly manoeuvres himself under the arch, making a muffled noise of surprise as he drops out of view.

“Stupid idea,” Stiles sing-songs. He can hear Derek growling and he feels Erica’s curious gaze on him, but he doesn’t look away from the sky. It’s dark and muggy in the swamp, but there’s a swathe of clear blue sky visible through the thick clumps of leaves.

“Up,” Derek demands, beckoning imperiously.

Stiles snorts. “You really have a way with words, don’t you, big guy? Thing is, see, I don’t actually have a death wish, or even a being-maimed-within-an-inch-of-my-life wish. I do, however, have a low pain threshold, and as such, I will be remaining out here, where I won’t die because of your stupidity.”

“You’re coming with us,” Derek states angrily. “This is your quest too, and we brought you along because you’re useful, so be _useful_. Get up.”

Stiles props himself up on his elbows and adopts a thoughtful expression. “Let me think about that for an hour, and then I promise I’ll get back to you, m’kay?”

Derek growls loudly, and then he stalks towards the tree, snapping out an ‘Erica’ before he climbs into the arch. Erica lingers for a moment, watching him with something akin to amusement. She’s pretty; all smooth, pale skin and golden hair, very red lips and tight clothes that accentuate every curve. She’s also _very_ out of Stiles’ league.

“See something you like?” Stiles asks, arching an eyebrow as he falls back against the grass.

Erica hums. “I don’t go for cowards.”

He snaps upright immediately, a livid remark on his lips, but Erica’s already gone, her laugh echoing inside the tree. He knows it’s supposed to bait him, but he also knows that whatever the werewolves think they can smell, it’s been fabricated, and he’s not stupid enough to walk willingly into a trap. If they want to get themselves killed, then what’s it to him?

 _Coward_. Like Erica, the word lingers, and Stiles gets up and starts to pace.

All Mage’s are cowards. All Mage’s are monsters and beasts and the scum of the earth, secretive and deadly, silent and still, the shadows of the earth and the snakes of society. That’s what people say. Stiles sighs, rubs at his nose. Is he a coward, for not wanting to do something dangerous? Does it make him a coward, if he’s afraid? Maybe. Probably. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to die. Maybe he wants to save his friend and go home and live a normal, albeit secretive, life.

There was a war, a long time ago, and it was the Mages that led troops onto the battlefield, boys and girls that they had tricked with their minds into obeying, boys and girls turned to glassy-eyed soldiers, forcibly marched across a Kingdom, armed with fire and metal, their innocence snatched from their tender grasp.

 _Children_. Mages had used children to try and win a war, and when the other Kingdoms had cut them down in the fray, it had been the Mages that took the blame for the deaths. There aren’t many around now, shunned and chased out of towns. There are rumours of Temples to the North, where Mages live in secret and study the ways of good magic. There are also darker rumours of cages beneath the Temples, where Mages are strung up and left to rot as a punishment for their crimes.

Stiles doesn’t have the luxury of not believing it.

He paces for ten minutes, and then another five, and then, just as he’s beginning to think that he should have followed them into the tree, there’s a roar so _loud_ that it shakes the swamp floor, and Stiles rocks on his feet in alarm, his ears pricked up, alert and tense. The tree starts to rumble, and then Isaac bursts out of it and collides heavily with the floor, blood staining his right cheek. Boyd follows him, and then Derek – and Erica is there too, cradled in Derek’s arms and shaking violently.

The tree trunk closes up behind them with a snap, like a pair of steel jaws closing around a tasty bite. Stiles thinks he hears laughter from inside it.

“I told you,” Stiles snaps, paling. “I _told_ you it was a trap. What was it? What was down there?”

“A wraith,” Isaac says shortly. His eyes never leave Erica. “We were winning, and then it spat at her, like a big purple fireball, and she sort of …”

“What?” Stiles demands.

Isaac wrinkles his nose. “She ate it.”

Stiles steps forward immediately, arms outstretched, and then comes to an abrupt stop as Derek growls.

“Don’t come near us,” Derek snarls. He’s got Erica in his arms, both of them collapsed on the floor whilst the blonde convulses and froths at the mouth, her eyes rolling back into her head. Boyd stands nearby, his face pale and sickly, terror in his eyes.

Stiles takes another step forward, and Derek’s eyes shine red.

“I said, don’t fucking come near her!” Derek roars. Stiles feels something primal in him revolt at the very thought of challenging Derek, but the rest of him, the part that lives to learn and help and _save_ , that part rebels against his fear. He straightens his spine.

“If you want her to live,” Stiles snaps, “then you’ll let me help.”

All he’s ever wanted to do was help people. All he ever tried to do was save someone.

“Derek,” Isaac says, glancing indecisively at Stiles, who sets his jaw. “Maybe we should let him do something.”

“She’s strong,” Derek snaps back. “Her healing will kick in any minute now. It’s just taking longer than usual because of _magic_.”

He spits the word out, and although it’s not helping the situation, Stiles can’t really begrudge the guy his hatred.

Stiles drags a hand down his face, frustrated, and drops to his knees on the coarse grass, mud sinking through his clothes. Derek doesn’t move, but his arms tighten around Erica, whose breath wheezes out of her. Her chest rattles and one of her legs jerk, colliding with Stiles’ knee. Stiles sets a hand on her ankle, gently, and keeps his eyes on Derek. There’s fear there, desperation, a helplessness that Stiles can relate to. He’s felt that way before, he knows what it’s like to have death at your door and no way to lock it out, no way to combat it.  

“If you want her to live,” Stiles says, in a voice that sounds much calmer than he feels, “then you have to let me help. Magic did this to her, and magic will save her, but you have to let me help.”

He can feel the moment that Derek gives in, can see the tension in his shoulders recede slightly as he lays Erica down on the floor, more gently than someone like Derek looks capable of. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to move in now that he’s got permission, ignores Boyd’s low, warning growl even as the hairs prick up on the back of his neck. _Not afraid of werewolves_ , he reminds himself.

Stiles puts one hand on Erica’s forehead and flinches.

Her skin is freezing, like ice, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is the magic that Stiles can feel growing inside of her, this dark, hateful thing, so viscous and heavy and seething that it’s like a living entity, eating its’ way through Erica’s veins and leeching her energy. It’s so dark, so angry and rotten, that Stiles knows instantly that there’s no coming back from this type of magic.

She’ll be dead in a day. Probably sooner.

He looks up, mouth parted, and his eyes meet Derek Hale’s, and he freezes. Derek’s eyes are wide and wary and tired, but he’s looking at Stiles with something akin to hope. Not quite hope, not yet, because hope implies a little bit of trust, and someone like Derek will never trust someone like Stiles, no matter who Stiles saves, no matter what he does.

But it’s close enough to make Stiles rethink his earlier diagnosis.

 _It’s_ _magic_ , he thinks, as he puts his other hand on Erica’s wrist. Her pulse quickens, but she shows no other sign of acknowledgement. She’s too far gone for that. Erica is a werewolf, through and through, regardless of who she was before Derek bit her, and werewolves don’t have room for anything besides moon magic in their blood. Their body responds to all other kinds of magic like it’s an infection, and _this_ kind, the worst kind, the kind that’s killing Erica, is too strong for them to fight off.

But it might not be too strong for Stiles.

Stiles bites his lip. Oh, it’ll kill him, but it will take much longer with him, since Stiles already has magic in him. His body will welcome it, at first, and by the time it decides to fight it off, it will be too late. The magic will kill him.

 _Dad_ , he thinks. _Scott_.

Erica isn’t his family. She’s not even his friend, and she’s definitely not someone that Stiles can trust, and Stiles doesn’t really want to put his life in danger for her, but then Stiles glances up, and he sees that _almost_ _hope_ again, and he sighs, because he knows he’s already decided. He has to do something. That’s what magic is for, that’s why he became a Mage in the first place – to help people, to save people.

“I’m going to try something,” Stiles says quietly. Derek’s breath stutters in and out, and then he nods, quickly, his eyes narrowing.

“Just do it quickly,” Boyd snarls, his eyes fixed on Erica’s fluttering eyelids.

Stiles nods briskly, reaches down, and plants his lips firmly over Erica’s. It’s not quite a kiss, it’s more of a press, but he can still hear Boyd roar furiously. He waits for pain, waits to be ripped away, but when nothing happens he closes his eyes and inhales. It’s a long, slow inhale that never ends.

Magic flows up between their lips, dark and angry. It’s like black smoke, thick and wavering, and Stiles focuses and breathes it in carefully – if he lets it go, it will just flow right back into Erica, and the shock of it will likely kill her instantly. The magic fights him every step of the way, and he keeps expecting to be torn away by Boyd’s large hands, but Isaac must be holding him back, because he stays there for a long while, just inhaling and inhaling, one long, painful breath.

At the last moment, the magic _surges_ into him greedily, like it suddenly sensed the power inside him, and the force of it throws him backwards, knocks him flat on his back. Stiles lies there, winded, coughing, as the world dulls slightly and he listens to Derek’s pack scuffle around him, reaching for Erica.

There’s an ache in his lungs and he feels dizzy, and the dark magic settles uncomfortably in his chest, just to the right of his heart. It’s heavy, and he knows it will only get heavier as the days progress. But there’s a lightness, too, as he pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches Erica open her eyes and sit up, groggy but otherwise fine.

 _I did it,_ he thinks incredulously. _I saved her._

Stiles smiles for the first time in weeks.

*

“That black smoke,” Derek says, later on, cornering Stiles just before he can duck inside his tent. “Where did it go?”

Stiles pauses, tent flap still scrunched up in his fist, and arches an eyebrow. Why the hell does Derek care? And why is he looking at him like that, partly like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle and partly like he’s preparing to punch Stiles in the nose?

“It had to go somewhere,” Derek points out, a little more gruffly, when Stiles says silent.

“Where do you think it went, big guy?”

Derek reaches out and grabs his shoulder roughly, anger in every line of his face. “What does that mean for you? Does it make you stronger? More _powerful_?”

Stiles tries to shove his hands off, but the other man is a brick wall, immoveable. Stiles is pissed, anger rising steadily inside him, and he feels like shouting in Derek’s irritatingly attractive face, but Derek just barrels over him.

“Did you do it all on purpose? Did you _plan_ this? Answer me!”

Stiles finally shoves him away, seething. “It’s hard to answer you when I can’t get a word in between your accusations. No, I didn’t plan this. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you _not_ to walk into what was obviously a stupidly dangerous trap. You think I wanted this? You can’t take another person’s magic and keep it for yourself, that’s not how this shit works.”

It is possible, actually, to steal a person’s magic, but it involves a method that Stiles will _never_ , ever, in his _life_ , employ. He’s a Mage, not a murderer – although to most people, the two are tightly twined. To _Derek_ , the two are closely twined, and he wouldn’t understand, if Stiles explained it. It would just be another mark against his character, another horrible possibility, another reason to be wary.

“Shit, man, I just saved your beta’s life, can’t you at least act like you don’t want to beat me to death with a stick for _one_ minute? That’s all I’m asking, just one fucking minute.”

Derek scowls at him. “The dark smoke went inside you. You took it inside you. I don’t need to be versed in … _magic_ , to know that that has an effect.”

“You can say _magic_ , it’s not a dirty word,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“Just a dirty act,” Derek says quietly, arching an eyebrow with some small measure of triumph.

Stiles clenches his jaw. “Look, buddy, the magic that I already have will attack the dark magic that I took from Erica. Do I need to dumb it down for you even further, meat-head, or do you understand that _incredibly_ simple concept?”

It’s technically not a lie; his magic _will_ attack the dark magic, but it just won’t _win_. Derek doesn’t need to know that, though, not least because he wouldn’t actually give a shit; Stiles has a pretty strong suspicion that they’ll send him home if they realise that he’s ill enough to compromise their mission, and while Stiles might have given in gracefully if it were in other circumstances, this is about _Scott_. This is about Scott, and Stiles doesn’t trust these guys to bring his best friend back alive.

He’s not going anywhere.

Derek must sense that he’s not lying because he nods sharply, and then turns and walks away, heading back into the circle of warm firelight. Boyd is sitting with his arm wrapped around Erica, who’s snoring softly against his shoulder, pale but looking better than she had, and Isaac is across from them, tending the fire and throwing them anxious looks every now and again. Isaac looks up as Derek approaches, and all three of them relax as Derek sits down – even Erica, like she can sense that her alpha is near even in sleep. Hell, she probably can.

They look comfortable, sat together like that. Comfortable in each other’s presence. They look like a family, and Stiles wraps his arms tightly around his chest, ignores the pain in his head, and ducks inside of his tent, trying desperately not to think of home.

*

It takes a few hours before the pack can pick up Scott’s scent again, but they do eventually. They end up travelling to a nearby village, a small, unnamed village in the valley between two rolling hills, and a Stiles is told to sit and wait whilst Derek and the rest of them do all the work. Normally, this wouldn’t be enough to deter Stiles from snooping, but he’s got a throbbing headache, and he knows it’s because of the dark magic inside of him.

He’s sat beside the well, watching Derek discuss their location with a farmer and trying desperately to ignore the dull, fuzzy waves at the edge of his vision. The dark magic never sleeps, and so Stiles hasn’t slept either, not really, but he thinks the hazy vision is more to do with the magic _itself_ than the sleep deprivation.

Will it make him blind? Will he be handicapped by the end, unable to see, maybe unable to walk or talk or lift his head? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know enough about this kind of magic. What he wants, right now, is books. Books, like the kind that fill the library back home, books that can tell him everything he needs to know about this bitter poison in his veins.

He hopes he makes it to Scott in time.

A few children come closer, their faces curious as Stiles leans against the well tiredly. He offers them a smile and a boy returns it toothily, whilst a girl, probably his sister, stares at him warily.

“Ella says that you’re a Mage,” the boy stage-whispers, pointing to the girl, and Stiles snorts. He glances around furtively to check that nobody’s watching, and then he unfurls one hand, slowly, and concentrates hard. It takes a little bit more effort than it should, but a flower blooms in his palm, pale at first, but growing bluer by the second. The petals shift lazily in the wind, and both of the children gasp.

Stiles’ headache gets worse, but it’s worth it when the boy jumps up, grabs Stiles hand and yanks it down to his face so that he can look at the flower properly.

“That’s amazing,” whispers the boy.

“It’s not too awful,” grumbles Ella, shrugging.

Stiles laughs. He probably would have had the same reaction when he was younger, if he’d ever met a magic-user. Curiosity wrapped up in nonchalance.

“You can keep it, if you like,” Stiles says, offering the flower to the boy. “It should bloom forever. It won’t ever die. If you’re lucky, it might even change colours at night.”

“Come on, Jack,” Ella says, tugging on her brother’s sleeve. Jack scrambles to grab the flower and then grins at Stiles as his sister drags him away, shouting out his gratitude over his shoulder. Stiles waves them off, amused, and then turns around to find Derek _inches_ away from him. He yelps, accidentally crashes one fist into Derek’s chest, and then trips backwards.

Derek grabs his flailing wrist before Stiles can plunge into the well, yanks him forward slightly.

“What was that?” Derek asks.

Stiles straightens up and huffs. “You scared the shit out of me, that’s what that was. You can’t just creep up on people and expect them to have a normal, pleasant reaction.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “ _That’s_ what I meant.”

He points behind Stiles, to where Jack and Ella are squabbling over the flower, on the doorstep of their home. Stiles turns to look, and then gets stuck on the fact that Derek’s holding his wrist.

It’s nothing big, nothing monumental, but it’s still _something_. The only time anyone’s voluntarily touched Stiles this past week was to shove him or push him up against something, or in Isaac’s case, _claw_ him. This is different, though. Derek’s thumb is pressing against Stiles’ pulse point and his face is bland, empty of the usual anger.

Derek follows his gaze, and then he jerks his hand away like Stiles burned him. There’s a split second where they stare at each other, shocked, and then Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Quick, you better go and wash your hands. Wouldn’t want to catch something.”

Derek makes a show of wiping his hand on his jeans, and it shouldn’t sting, but it _does_. Stiles tilts his chin up and stares at the kids in the distance, refusing to meet Derek’s eyes.

“What was all that about?” Derek asks again, pointing at the kids.

“It was just a flower,” Stiles mumbles. “It won’t hurt them. It’s just a fucking _flower_.”

Does Derek really think that Stiles would hurt _kids_?

 _Of course he does_ , Stiles thinks miserably. _He’s exactly like everyone else._

Derek opens his mouth and then closes it again, and Stiles doesn’t get a chance to find out what he might say, because Boyd strides over and comes to a stop beside Derek. They both turn to look at him, although Boyd doesn’t acknowledge Stiles at all.

 _Don’t mind me_ , Stiles thinks bitterly. _I’m just the guy who saved your girlfriend’s life._

“We’ve spoken to everyone in town,” Boyd says solemnly. “By all accounts, it’s been a completely normal week. We’re the first outsiders that have been here since their last fair and that was about three weeks ago.”

“Scott was taken after that,” Stiles mutters to himself, ignoring Derek’s sharp glare. “This place has so little foot-traffic that anything out of the ordinary would have been picked up, unless it didn’t _look_ like it was out of the ordinary. Are you sure it was Scott’s scent?”

Derek hesitates, shares a quick, indecipherable glance with Boyd. Something nudges at Stiles, an instinct that he can’t ignore, and he narrows his eyes. There’s something going on here, something that he’s missed. He doesn’t like not being in the know.

“What was that look for?” he demands sharply. “What’s going on?”  

“It was the right scent,” Derek says, after another short pause. “It’s still present in the town, but it’s fainter now, and it leads that way.” He points, and then cocks his head to the side, like he’s listening to the wind. “Erica and Isaac have found an exit point, they think. We’ll follow the scent out of the town and see where it leads us.”

“What a fantastically detailed plan,” Stiles mutters.

“It’s better than anything you’ve come up with,” Boyd says lightly. He has this way of sounding calm and collected, with an underlying edge of _gonna rip your throat_ _out_ that makes Stiles understandably wary. Not that he doesn’t think he can take a few werewolves – he knows a few spells to knock people out cold, although the energy needed tends to knock _Stiles_ out cold as well, but the fact is, the only offensive spell he knows is to do with fire, and he only learned that out of necessity.

Stiles doesn’t do offensive magic. He refuses to travel down that path.

It’s possible that he might not have mentioned that to any of the Hale pack. It’s possible that he might have bitten off more than he can chew, but he doesn’t care right now, and he isn’t going to back down, so instead he just sneers at Boyd and starts stomping through the village, a healthy mix of apprehension and anger churning in his gut. 

*

“Did you ever think,” Stiles pants, “that there might be something else at work here?”

“Now’s not really the time,” Derek snaps, spitting water in Stiles’ face. Stiles is heavily tempted to just drop the guy and let him sink to the bottom of the lake, but despite how much they seem to hate each other, Stiles can’t actually let Derek die. Hence why he jumped in after the bastard in the first place, after one of the freaky lizards on the shore paralysed him.

“I’m serious,” Stiles says, chest heaving with the effort of keeping them both afloat. “There was the wraith in the swamp, and then the misdirection at that village. We spent, what, three days? Three days, wandering around through a bunch of empty hills, chasing a scent that suddenly disappeared, a scent that I don’t actually think was there at all – _shit,_ man, you’re _heavy_ – and then we end up in some kind of death forest with a bunch of poisonous creatures taking out your pack while we _drown_.”

Derek makes a muffled, gargling sound and Stiles grunts, hefting him up a little higher. It’s not easy – he wasn’t kidding when he said that Derek was heavy, and Stiles is already feeling tired and weak from the dark magic, so he’s not entirely sure how much longer he can keep them breathing. He can’t feel the bottom of the lake, no matter how much he kicks out with his feet, no matter how close they are to the shore.

There’s a yell, and then Isaac flies through the air, crashing against a tree with a painful cracking sound. He drops to the floor and lies still, arms bent at an awkward angle.

Derek roars, the sound horribly, _abnormally_ loud, ricocheting through Stiles’ chest, and Stiles is so surprised that he yelps and let’s go. Water splashes up in his face and Stiles splutters, coughing, before his heart freezes in his chest. Derek isn’t there.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, violently, and then he takes a huge breath and sinks down under the water.

It’s murky and gloomy, all green and mud and bruised blue, but Stiles swims down in the direction he thinks Derek must have gone, hands groping in the darkness. He’s quite a good swimmer – there’s a lake like this one just behind the castle back home, although _that_ lake is cleaner – so it’s easy to manoeuvre through the currents. His hand finds an arm and he grabs it, tugging Derek upwards, propelling them both through the water, pushing, his legs and lungs straining, until they both break through the water.

Hands drag them onto the shore and Stiles coughs, blinking blearily as Erica pummels Derek’s chest, feels relief flow through him as Derek spits out a ton of water and snarls weakly, eyes flashing as he digs his claws into the mud.

“We turned around and you’d both disappeared,” Erica says, pale-faced and sporting a busted lip. There’s some kind of green goo down her shoulder, and Stiles reaches out tentatively with his senses and winces.

“That’s got wolfsbane in it,” Stiles rasps, and Erica spares him a confused glance. He jerks his head at her shoulder, and Boyd is there immediately, calmly handing her his top so that she can wipe away the poisonous gloop.

“Isaac’s hurt, but he’s healing,” Boyd says quietly, staring intently at Derek as the other man gets to his feet. Stiles groans and flops back against the ground, grimacing. He’s quite fine to stay here for the rest of his life.

“Good,” Derek says, dragging a hand through his wet hair. He coughs again, sways on his feet for a moment, and then shakes himself, taking a staggering step forward. “What about the creatures?”

“Dead,” Erica says succinctly, jerking her head at the prone bodies on the ground. “Derek, you need to sit down.”

“Isaac –”

“Isaac’s fine,” Isaac says, limping over to them. He looks a bit battered, but there’s a pale copy of his usual smirk pasted on his face, and after a moment it looks like Derek decides to believe it, because he nods once, and then sits down heavily beside Stiles, who still hasn’t gotten up. “You, on the other hand, look like shit.”

“We need to set up camp,” Derek says hoarsely. He does look like shit, all pale and soaked. There’s a blue tinge to his lips that Stiles doesn’t like, but at least he’s alive and not at the bottom of a lake, drowning. Silver linings, and all.

“We can stay here,” Boyd announces. “At least we know it’s defendable, and there’s a source of water. He can do his magic thing to make it clean.” Boyd flicks his fingers at Stiles, who flips him the bird, and then there’s a rush of movement as everyone starts to unpack.

“So, that’s two of you I’ve saved now,” Stiles says, grinning at Derek from his splayed position. Derek glares at him. “First Erica, and now you, big guy. It’s a shame we’re not getting paid for this, because I’d sure as hell demand a raise.”

Derek turns his head slightly to smirk at him, and Stiles shoots upright.

“ _You’re getting paid for this?_ ”

“You didn’t think we’d go through all of this for free, did you?” Derek says drily, rolling his eyes. Stiles almost kids himself that there’s something fond in his gaze, but that’s impossible. Only a minute ago they were spitting at each other. “We do have to eat, Stiles. This isn’t a hobby, it’s our job.”

Stiles lies back down, grumbling, “I thought you just lived off of sweet little bunnies and harmless dear and innocent children.”

Derek flashes him a smile. “Only on full moons.”

Stiles tries to hide his own smile, but he thinks Derek sees it anyway. It vanishes on its’ own a moment later, when Erica strides over and kicks him in the shoulder.

“Ow, fuck! What was that for?”

“Get up,” Erica says, rolling her eyes and stalking away. “We need firewood, and I need to talk to you.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Stiles mutters, and then he begrudgingly gets up, groaning as he stretches his aching muscles, joints cracking. Isaac snickers, and then yelps when Derek throws a branch at him, and Stiles stares at them for a minute in confusion before shrugging it off. Werewolves are weird; what else is new?

They walk in silence for a while, he and Erica, picking up bits of wood and discarding the damp pieces. Erica makes sure to throw hers as far as possible and then smirk when Stiles’ lands at his feet.

“I could always dry it out,” Stiles says, wiggling his fingers. “It wouldn’t take a minute. I’m pretty good with fire.”

Erica flinches, and Stiles’ smile falls, as do his hands. He forgot, for a moment, that they weren’t all friends. He forgot that he was the unnatural one in this little group of theirs, the one with all the evil inside of him.

“Sorry,” he says lamely. “Slipped my mind.”

Erica shakes her head, wisps of blonde hair falling free from her plait. Her lip curls, and Stiles can’t tell if she’s disgusted with him or herself.

“You don’t need to apologise,” she says vehemently. “That’s what _I’m_ trying to do.”

She comes to a stop, and so does Stiles, a little warily.

“You saved Derek’s life,” Erica says. “And you saved mine. I don’t remember it, not really, it’s all fuzzy, but Boyd told me all about it the next day. I never thanked you for what you did, because honestly, I was a bit disgusted by the fact that you used magic near me.”

Stiles can’t help the expression of bitterness that flickers across his face.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Erica says, rolling her eyes again. “We’ve grown up hating people like you. Mages, you know.”

“I’m familiar,” Stiles drawls, as he starts walking again.

“I’d never met a Mage before I met you, and you were all pissed off and sarcastic and grouchy, so I just assumed that all the tales were true, you know?”

Stiles snorts. “Pissed off and sarcastic and grouchy is my default state. It’s Derek’s default state, come to that. You do realise that my brother is missing, and in potentially life-threatening danger? I have every right to be grouchy, and you guys only made it worse, looking at me like I’m contagious or poisonous.”

A hand on his arm stops him in his tracks. Stiles blinks, glancing down at Erica’s small, callused fingers, at the dirt under her nails and the grime streaking her wrist. She’s got a ring on, a silver one with green gems fixed into the metal, and her hand is actually grazing his skin.

It’s sort of beautiful, so of course Stiles has to go and ruin it.

“Are we having a moment?”

“See, _that_ ,” Erica says, shoving him with the same hand, only to reach out and yank him back by the collar before he can fall over. “That is why I didn’t say thank you sooner. You are kind of an asshole. But I’m an asshole too, most days, so this is me, apologising.”

Stiles grins. It’s small, but it’s more than enough.

“And this is me, accepting your apology. And also this is me, asking if I can at least sit by your fire in the evenings, so that I don’t look quite so pathetic in my tent, shivering alone.”

Erica snorts. “Deal.”

*

Things get a little better after that. There’s still no lead on Scott, and Stiles is getting antsy now – it’s been a few weeks since they first set out, and Stiles knew this was going to be difficult, he knew it was going to take time and patience, but he also thought they’d at least be sure of which direction they were supposed to be going in by now. Stiles isn’t a very patient person, although he can out-stubborn most people, which sometimes _looks_ like patience.

Everything else is going great, though. Stiles gets to sit with the rest of the pack at mealtimes, and although there’s an unspoken ban on anything magic-related, he actually gets to talk to people. Stiles is someone who needs to talk before his brain explodes, and it’s nice having people who will listen to him, even if Boyd is a little begrudging and Isaac rolls his eyes a lot.

The only downside to Stiles’ inclusion is that Derek is gone a lot.

Not that Stiles misses the guy or anything, but he thought they were at least getting used to each other. At first it isn’t a downside, and Stiles just accepts his absence with a shrug and a sigh of relief. Stiles is halfway towards just sitting back in his tent again when he decides that, no, fuck it, if Derek has a problem with him, then he can address it himself.

It turns out that Derek really does have a problem with him, although it’s not one that any of them anticipated, not even Stiles. Not even Derek himself.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell us that you couldn’t do offensive spells?” Derek roars, exploding forward in a rush of movement. He’s angrier than Stiles has ever seen him, and it takes his breath away.

“Because you didn’t fucking ask!” Stiles yells back, as he dodges a swipe of the creature’s claws. God, those are sharp enough to slice through metal, let alone fragile skin. The monster is about a hundred feet of thick skin and matted fur, pure, corded muscle and razor-sharp fangs that glisten with green saliva.

“Why would I have to ask?” Derek bellows. He ducks under the beast and stabs at its flank with his sword, rolling away with a curse when the thing howls and stamps its’ heavy feet.

“Why would you have to ask?” Stiles asks incredulously, backing away even further until his feet hit the base of a tree trunk. He manages to be both afraid and pissed off. _Because Mage’s aren’t evil, that’s why_ , he thinks. They aren’t all cruel and mean, they don’t take pleasure in other people’s pain. They don’t kill for fun. They don’t kill at all, most of them.

Stiles can make golden butterflies fill the sky at sunrise. He can charm every leaf in this forest to sing and whisper and laugh. He can talk to some animals, sometimes. He can change the colour of his eyes. He can make flowers bloom in his hand, and he can alter the way that sunbeams fall on the ground, so that it makes pictures form on the grass. He knows how to twist moonlight into shapes in the air, melt metal under his palm to make silver arrows that arc upwards on their own. He knows how to make trees grow in one night, knows their language and their creaking, oaky laughter.

He knows how to heal and he knows how to help, but he never learned how to kill.

 _That’s_ why Derek should have asked.

“Do something!” Erica orders Stiles, darting forward to put a hand on his shoulder. They both duck backwards out of the way of another large swipe. “You’re powerful. I know you can do something, so do it. Kill this thing before it kills us.”

In her voice, he hears the words _I don’t go for cowards_. He sees every disdainful look that Derek’s ever thrown him, every fraction of worry and weariness that’s ever flitted across his father’s face.

Sparks bloom on the tips of his fingertips, and Stiles breathes in haggardly, because God, he can only think of one thing that might work and he knows it’s going to hurt. He learnt how to create and control fire out of necessity; it was a valuable tool, not something to be used as a weapon, not in his hands. And yet it’s the only vaguely offensive spell that he knows and Erica’s right. Fighting this monster with metal and claws is barely working as it is. They need something stronger.

He pushes Erica away and watches her roll across the trampled grass, just dodging the monster’s claws.

He takes a deep, shaky breath and then digs deep inside himself, pulling all of his energy, ignoring the pulses of darkness that want to join in, have a little fun. Stiles pushes the dark magic down – he won’t let it tempt him into using it, won’t let it grow – and pulls and pulls at the threads of light, kind magic in his chest.

Fire sparks to life under his nails, and it _hurts_. Offensive magic always hurts, no matter the intention. The only thing that changes is the way it hurts; he read once, in an old journal, that a mage tried to sink a village beneath the waves of the ocean and instead felt like he was drowning himself. He suffocated and died in a matter of seconds, unable to stop the magic, and all that was left in the end was a pool of murky water.

This doesn’t feel like drowning. Stiles feels like he’s being reborn, pushed through a horrendous torrent of heat and ash. His skin is burning, cracking, breaking, but he can’t stop the flames that are rolling down his hands and along his wrists, licking hungrily along his veins and sticking to him like a second skin. He lets out a ragged sound that turns into a sob – _why did he do this, Christ, why did he do this, he can’t stop it, it’s going to hurt so much_ –

The beast turns around at the noise and growls, low and hungry, and Stiles throws both of his hands out in the air. Blistering heat roars off of him, a wave of burgundy flames that rises up like a mountain and then crashes down on top of the beast. The beast releases a high-pitched howl of agony which cuts off abruptly as the fire consumes it. Stiles closes his eyes in relief and pain as the magic tapers off. He never wanted to hurt anybody, never wanted to cause pain like that, never wanted to _feel_ pain like that. It’s like he can feel this chasm in the earth, a space that used to be occupied by the life he just snuffed out. He knows he’ll feel it forever.

The price for strong, offensive magic is high – it’s life and death and torture and pain, everything awful in the world. If you want to inflict something like that, then it takes something from you in turn, and it makes sure you don’t ever forget about that little bargain. There’s a balance to this, a line that Stiles has yet to work out how to walk.

He opens his mouth, feels the cracked, dry lines of his lips burst and bleed, and blinks groggily.

Derek is there, in front of him, stunned, his sword still raised aloft in an attempt to cut down the creature. He’s breathing hard and he looks like he wants to run to Stiles, but the rest of him is still, a line of mute shock. Erica is behind Derek, her brown eyes blown wide, blood trickling down one cheek, and Boyd and Isaac creep into the clearing, having dived out of the way of Stiles’ attack. Isaac’s arm is twisted awkwardly and Boyd is leaning over, hands braced on his knees, his sword discarded on the ground, shining with blood. They’re all looking at Stiles with something akin to horror, and it breaks something inside of him. _They’ve never seen magic before_ , he remembers _. Not like this_.

 _Stop looking at me like that_ , he wants to say. _I just did what you asked._

He doesn’t say that. Instead, he coughs, once, and then his eyes roll back into his head and he’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

*

Stiles wakes with Derek’s hands on his fingers, applying gentle pressure, and it’s so shocking that Stiles takes a moment to suck in a sharp gust of air.

“I know you’re awake,” Derek says quietly. “It’s just me.”

Stiles swallows thickly. Derek’s hands are something to behold; it’s an observation that Stiles will forever keep to himself, tucked away with other such gleaming facts, like the way that Derek’s hair looks soft enough to resemble black silk in the right light, like the way Stiles would happily slice himself on that jawline, like the way his beard, when it grows in, is never patchy, and always looks like something Stiles would like to run his fingers through. Desire; that’s the secret here, and Stiles will keep it for as long he lives.

“How bad is it?” Stiles asks. He feels pretty fragile at the moment, lying with his back on something soft, warmth covering his legs. He’s in a tent, but it’s not his; the canopy is deep blue rather than the burgundy red that Stiles owns, and it’s more spacious, empty.

“Your lips are raw. The rest of the damage extends to your hands, from your fingers to just past your wrists,” Derek informs him matter-of-factly. As he talks, he moves his hands alone Stiles’ arms, brushing unfamiliar paths across his skin. “They’re pretty badly burnt, so I’ve bandaged them up. I’m almost done now.”

It’s a relief, to hear that he isn’t burned everywhere, that he won’t be badly scarred. He’s not vain by any means. His life is a little too strained and busy, full of secrets, for him to wonder about mundane things like his appearance. It’s not as if he can ever get married; he can’t even reveal his last name to anyone without them realising what he is, a Highborn, the technical heir to the throne of Beacon. Not that anyone would want to marry him, a Mage, a _monster_.

At least, he thinks ruefully, flexing his wrists, he can’t be called a coward, anymore.  

The point is, he’s not vain, but he likes his face unburned. He doesn’t want any scars. He doesn’t want to be burned to a crisp, blackened and charred. He’s heard of that happening, too, in the journal; there are countless ways that Mage’s can hurt themselves, tear themselves apart for just a taste of power. Stiles knows all too well the consequences of playing with forces that cannot be understood, and he wouldn’t wish that pain and devastation on anybody.

Stiles licks his dry lips, winces at the slight sting. “The others?”

“We heal fast,” Derek says, which isn’t actually an answer. “The monster’s dead, and you didn’t start a forest fire, so we moved a little further away and set up camp whilst you slept. I might not know much about what you can do, but I assumed you needed rest to recuperate. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

It’s the most that Derek’s ever said to him without sounding angry or frustrated, not to mention that Derek actually _asked after his health_. Stiles actually sits up in bewilderment, facing Derek head on. Derek arches both eyebrows – he has very expressive eyebrows, Stiles is envious – and his fingers slip away from the rough white bandages that cover Stiles’ hands. Stiles feels the loss keenly.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, shrugging. “A bit sore, achey, you know how it is.” He grins a little wickedly. “It just feels like I had really vigorous sex.”

Derek snorts, ducks his head as he moves to pack all of the medical supplies back into the leather backpack. Stiles grins at the top of his head, finds himself feeling surprisingly fond, which is ridiculous. The man might be an ass, but he’s fun to tease and bicker with.

“I’m surprised you know what that feels like,” Derek says lightly, smirking.

“Oddly enough, some people don’t actually have that high standards,” Stiles says, cracking his jaw as he moves slowly off of the bed. It’s basically just a pile of blankets on the floor and a lopsided pillow, but it’s more comfortable than Stiles’ bed. “And if they do, then I’m well practiced at enticing them to lower them.”

Instead of making Derek roll his eyes or leave, the older man frowns disapprovingly. “I don’t understand you,” Derek says solemnly, and Stiles blinks at him.

“I think about half of the world, including my father, can sympathise with you,” Stiles says. “When we get Scott back, you two can console each other.”

“That’s not what I mean. One moment you’re the most cocky, arrogant, sarcastic son of a bitch I’ve ever met, and the next you’re pulling that irritating self-deprecating smile and talking about how pathetic you are,” Derek says, a splash of frustration colouring his words.

“Self-esteem is a complicated thing, Derek,” Stiles says, although he feels strangely hollowed out at Derek’s observation.

“You shouldn’t hate yourself,” Derek declares.

For a moment, Stiles simply stares at him in silence. He can’t quite believe that the words actually left Derek’s mouth and he keeps staring just in case it was a hallucination, but Derek stares back steadily, a little defiant. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Derek that it’s the naivest thing he’s ever heard Derek say, mostly because of the way his heart is busy tripping over itself with glee.

“Why not?” Stiles asks quietly. “Everyone else seems to hate me. _You_ hate me.”

“I don’t…” Derek stops, even more frustrated. “It’s not hate, not anymore. It’s prejudice.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “That’s big of you. Most people would rather gouge their own eyes out than admit that. Even I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than admit when I’m wrong. You know we’re already fine, yeah? I don’t really hate you anymore, either, and I’m fine with things the way they are. You don’t have to do anything to … I don’t know … prove yourself, or something.”

Derek tips his head to the side. “I don’t like leaving people with the wrong impression of me. I value my pack, above all else, as a priority. They are all family to me, and you saved every single one of them, including myself.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, blushing inexplicably. Derek’s gaze rests intently on his face, skimming over the little cuts and bruises and the mud and dirt, washing over his cheeks and his nose and the dip in his chin, the crease above his nose, the bow of his lips.

One of Derek’s hands reaches out, and he puts his thumb on Stiles’ bottom lip, pressing down with just enough pressure to part Stiles’ mouth. Stiles hears himself inhale sharply in surprise, lust and shock jolting through him like hot streaks of lightening. His heart thuds in his ears as Derek leans in and eyes glinting, and says, voice rough, “I don’t want you to think I hate you when the truth is, I trust you more than I ever thought I could trust anyone.”

Stiles darts his tongue against Derek’s thumb, and Derek rumbles low in his chest, deep and pleased.

“You know what I said, before?” Stiles asks, swallowing thickly. “About vigorous sex? I actually don’t think I’m that sore.”

Derek grins and leans in.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Stiles warns him, just because Derek can kiss him. “I’m still going to be an ass. And I’m still right about the – _ah_.”

Later ( _much_ later) Derek rolls off of Stiles with a sigh and they lie there, panting in the heat of the tent. Stiles presses fingers to his own, bitten, kiss-swollen lips and grins. He’s got little bruises all down the line of his throat and he can feel each one, tender and dark, like a brand against his skin. Derek makes a little noise as Stiles flits his fingers over the marks, pressing slightly, and rolls over again to kiss Stiles, blanketing him briefly with his weight.

“Werewolf stamina is something I think I could get used to,” Stiles says lightly, brushing their lips together as he speaks. Derek’s face is a bland mask, but his eyes are hot and intense, and Stiles doesn’t feel as afraid that he’s about to get brushed off. Not that he couldn’t deal with it like a grown up, he’s a big boy, but he _wants_ this. Wants it enough that it squeezes his lungs for a moment.

“That’s good,” Derek says, kissing Stiles hard. “Because I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.”

Stiles makes a relived, happy sound and gathers him in, and moans in disappointment when Derek shifts away.

“Except for now,” Derek says, smirking. “I’m hungry.”

Derek leaves the tent first, to gather his beta’s and make food, and Stiles lets himself lie there for almost an hour, still partially out of breath and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Part of him is screaming about how bad of an idea this is, that Derek’s going to use him and throw him away after this, that Stiles isn’t good for anyone, that they’ll break it off after they get Scott back, that Derek is undoubtedly hiding something about the scent they’ve been following. He knows all of this, and he feels a little stupid, and yet, he can’t stop smiling. If this is a mistake, it’s one he’s gladly going to make over and over again.

To the canopy, he murmurs, “I trust you too.”

*

Later, once he’s managed to get dressed, even with his burned hands, Stiles starts to feel a little heavier, a little less happy. He’s left with this sickness inside of him and the strong urge to run, but he hunkers down by the campfire and tries not to feel that emptiness in the earth, where the monster was.

His hands are a constant reminder of what he did, and even Derek sitting with them, moving closer to Stiles, isn’t enough to make him forget.

“I’ve never killed anything before,” Stiles says hoarsely. He stares blankly at the firelight, remembers the feel of the flames roaming over his skin. “I’ve never used magic like that before.”

The Hale pack shifts uncomfortably in the wake of his admittance, but they don’t say anything. Isaac leans over to pass him a roughly hewn wooden bowl filled with broth, and Stiles stares at it for a second before he takes it listlessly. He blinks at the fire until Derek sighs sharply.

“You did good, Stiles,” Derek says gruffly. It’s harder to talk, out here, in the light, with company. “That thing would have killed us all if you hadn’t stepped in.”

Stiles looks at Derek carefully, admiring the way the firelight frames him carefully, makes him look a little more fragile, a little more breakable. He knows Derek’s right. It makes him feel a little better. He takes a sip of broth and then puts the bowl down on the ground. He knows he should eat, knows he can’t afford to go without food, not with the way the dark magic’s leeching his energy. He can feel it now, clearer than before. The weight is spreading, fracturing out from his chest, where his heart is slowly growing colder.

He needs to eat, but he’s not hungry.

“You did good,” Derek repeats, a little quieter this time.

“It didn’t feel good,” he says mutely.

“It’s not supposed to,” Erica says softly. “But you did good, and that’s what matters.”

“You know that this is why we brought you along, don’t you?” Boyd asks seriously, staring at Stiles across the fire. Boyd always strikes Stiles as a man of contradictions; a gentle giant, a man with little words and so much to say.

“I thought you brought me along because Dad made you,” Stiles says.

Derek furrows his brow. “We’ve never met your father. The King of Beacon contacted us, told us that his step-son, the heir to the throne, had been taken. He said you were Scott’s secret friend, and a Mage, and that you’d be useful. I think he wanted someone from his Kingdom with us, just in case.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide and he curses himself internally, ducking his head. _Shit_ , of course they don’t know about his father. They don’t know that Stiles is actually a highborn, and Stiles’ father obviously meant for him to keep it that way. Nobody knows about Stiles, in the Kingdom of Beacon. People think he died a long time ago, and if they see him now, on his less careful days, wandering around, then it’s easy for them to sweep any resemblances to the young Stilinski boy that used to run around the Kingdom under a rug of blind hatred and prejudice.

There’s a tense, confused silence, and then Erica scoffs.

“Whatever, just eat something, will you? You look like one good shake will break you.”

Stiles quirks a smile. He lifts the bowl back up, mindful of his bandaged hands, takes another sip, and then another, and another, until he feels like he could at least cast a spell for sleep without throwing up.

He listens to the werewolves chat quietly, discussing the battle and their next move. The village is always an option, and Stiles can think of a few more spells that might be useful, some that might bring the scent back so that they have a better chance of scouting out the surrounding lands.

“We might need another portal,” Derek says, glancing sideways at Stiles.

Stiles pastes on an easy smile, despite the headache and the slight curl of dread at the thought of performing more powerful magic so soon. The fire’s already eaten away another two days, he thinks, of his time before the dark magic consumes him fully.

“Not a problem. Where, though? I told you, I have to know where I’m going first.”

Derek makes a displeased noise, and then pinches the bridge of his nose, obviously thinking hard.

“Could you study maps and then perform the necessary spells? Or do you actually have to have been there?”

Stiles chews his lip thoughtfully, shakes his head. “As long as I know what the place looks like, and the exact location, I can make a portal there successfully. Where do you want to go?”

“Serion,” Derek declares, and the group goes quiet in surprise. “I want to go to Serion.”

“That’s a werewolf Kingdom, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, even though he’s not supposed to know about it. He read about it, in an ancient tome containing dark spells. Boyd nods at him over the fire.

“Why do you want to go there?” Erica asks curiously. “I thought we were supposed to be following the scent trail.”

“If we detour for too long then the trail will go cold, and we won’t be able to find it again,” Boyd points out. “It took us long enough to find it this time.”

“I know that,” Derek says, “but this is important. It might be more helpful than tracking the scent ever will be.”

He looks at Stiles, and his gaze is so intense that Stiles pauses with the bowl halfway to his lips. It’s nice, to be looked at like that. It’s nice to be _asked_. He nods back, serious.

“I can do it. Just fetch me the maps. And more of broth, so that I don’t pass out again. Once a day is enough of an ego blow, thank you very much.”

*

“You must be Stiles!” booms a deep voice.

Stiles is jerked into a hug so suddenly that he doesn’t get a chance to fight it. Someone with large, bulky arms squeezes Stiles so hard that his feet lift off the floor, and Stiles almost chokes on his tongue when he pulls back to see an old, withered face beaming back at him. The man’s skin is darker than Boyd’s and he has a puckered scar on his top lip, and despite his size he looks pretty capable of beating Stiles in a show of strength.

“How the hell are you so strong?” Stiles demands weakly, leaning back and rubbing his arm. “Do you eat lions for breakfast or something?”

The man laughs heartily, throwing his head back the way that Stiles does when he laughs, and Stiles blinks, thoroughly dazzled. Nobody’s ever had that reaction to meeting him before. Nobody’s hugged him like that in a while, either, and it makes him miss his Dad.

“Sabre-tooth’s, actually,” says the man, winking. “Lions have so much more fur, it gets caught in my teeth.”

Stiles snickers, and then hastily moves aside as the man charges at Derek, whose face actually breaks into a smile as the old man hugs him around the middle. The man doesn’t even come up to Derek’s chin, it’s _delightful_ , but not as delightful as the fact that Derek fucking Hale is smiling. And not his usual asshole smile that’s actually a smirk or an _I’m better than you and we all know it_ grin, but an actual fond smile.

“He’s smiling,” Stiles stage-whispers, and Erica cackles loudly in his ear.

“We’ve been blessed,” Isaac agrees solemnly, nodding his head as he leans against a bookshelf. Boyd makes sure to do a dramatic double-take as he walks in and catches a look at Derek’s face, and Stiles and Erica burst into muffled giggles. Derek glares at them all over the old man’s head.

“This is Casper,” Derek says, gently pushing the old man away. “My connection here in the City while we’re away. He’s going to help us.”

“Oh, am I?” Casper asks good-naturedly. “I guess that’s settled then.”

They end up in a library of sorts, a cluttered study crammed full of maps and books and an assortment of strange ornaments. Stiles studies a telescope whilst Derek and Casper talk quietly together, the other werewolves blatantly eavesdropping even as they busy themselves with books and hot tea, and then Stiles catches sight of a book across the room. He freezes, the air rushing out of his lungs, and he lunges across the room, scrambling over a chair and knocking a stack of papers off of the desk.

He yanks the book off of the shelf and then drops it, his heart beating painfully fast.  

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, but Stiles is too busy picking the book up again, gingerly this time. He flips through it, stares at the cover, and then opens it up again, his mind as blank as the pages.

“Where did you get this?” Stiles asks quietly.

Casper doesn’t say anything. He stares very calmly at Stiles, a flicker of indecision in his dark, warm eyes.

“Where,” Stiles asks again, even quieter, “did you get this?”

“It was sent to me,” Casper says eventually, surprisingly steady considering the tension building in the room. “A long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Stiles says, narrowing his eyes. “Eleven years ago, give or take. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Casper says slowly. “Almost twelve years ago, this book was sent to me from a large Kingdom known as Beacon, with explicit instructions to remove the contents. I’m qualified to do this, as a Manuscriptorist, and a trained Alchemist, but I couldn’t bear to destroy it. Not properly, anyway. Instead, I laced the pages with a chemical that would make the words unseen, and when painted with another chemical, the words can be brought back again. I alone have access to the recipe for both chemical, so I assure you, it’s in quite good hands.”

“It’s not safe in anybody’s hands,” Stiles says softly, staring at the cover.

Erica makes an impatient noise. “What’s the problem? I thought we were here to discuss the scent we’ve been tracking, not some mouldy old book.”

Stiles drags a hand down his face. He’s been looking for this book for roughly five years now, building connections in every city and village across the seven realms, making small deals and exchanging favours with the fae, spending his ever-dwindling supply of money chasing rumours that always, always amounted to nothing.

“My father sent you this book, didn’t he?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t actually _need_ the answer, he knows he’s right, but it would be quite nice to receive one anyway. Casper looks confused for a moment.

“The book was sent to me by the –” Casper stops abruptly as Stiles looks up sharply.

“Ah,” Casper says tactfully. “Well, that explains a few things.”

“It really doesn’t,” Isaac adds.

“Either of you care to tell us what’s going on?” Derek says, in a suggestion that isn’t really a suggestion at all.

“Later,” Stiles promises, shoving the book into his bag. Casper watches him silently, and Stiles tips his chin up, dares him to protest. The old man says nothing, but he does make sure to catch Stiles’ shoulder before they leave, maps in hand, and whisper in his ear, “You don’t need to resort to such dire methods, Stiles Stilinski. Just think about it, long and hard, before you do anything you may regret. The past is not just painful; it is also helpful. We can learn from it. Just ask Derek.”

Stiles glances up in confusion, mouth parted to ask more, but Casper is already clapping him on the shoulder and turning away, murmuring to Erica.

 _Derek?_ _What could Derek possibly have to teach him?_

*

The full moon takes him by surprise. They end up in the depths of a forest, Stiles leaned up against a tree trunk whilst the Hale Pack shifts and howls ahead of him, darting through the trees in their wolf forms. Isaac is the smallest, sandy-coloured with large paws. Boyd is russet-coloured and his bulky form is also the quietest, stealthiest. Erica has the most fur, shaggy and golden, and she howls the loudest.

Derek stays near Stiles, near the fire, red eyes glowing brightly like fireflies. Stiles doesn’t know enough about wolves to know what Derek’s thinking, if he’s thinking, or if it’s all instinct – maybe he’s completely capable of human thought in there, and he’s wary. Or maybe he wants to be there, with Stiles. Stiles already knows that Derek trusts him, and they’ve had many _wonderful_ sex marathons that show that Derek at least tolerates him. Stiles’ goes a little dreamy, a little glassy-eyed, as he thinks of the tent, of Derek’s bed, of both of them moving together, blankets tangled up around their feet, planes of pale skin exposed to the cool night air.

Derek huffs like he can sense where Stiles’ head is at, nudges his knee when Stiles tosses him an unashamed grin, stays close even as his beta’s run through the trees, and when they come back eventually, exhausted and panting hard, Stiles swears he sees the big black wolf roll his eyes fondly.

The wolves collapse around the fire, and silence settles over the forest. Stiles is tired, and his limbs ache with it, and he’s managed to hide one nosebleed today but he’s not sure if he’ll be able to pass off another, so he just sits and hopes that he sleeps, hopes that the dark magic stays at bay for another few days. It’s still eating away at him slowly.

They’ve got a plan. Casper gave them a potion, an ointment to rub under their noses so that they could distinguish the fake scent, the one that Stiles swears has been left out purposefully for them, from the real one. So they’ve got a plan, and tomorrow they’re going to be one step closer to finding Scott, and Stiles is tired but satisfied, happy that they’ve got a real lead.

Isaac inches closer, snout nosing at Stiles’ bag, and he claws it open somehow without tearing the laces, despite Stiles’ protests.

“Hey, stop, Isaac!” Stiles reaches forward to push Isaac away, but the wolf snaps something up out of his bag with his teeth and then moves forward again to drop it in Stiles’ lap. Stiles looks down and freezes.

It’s the little blue book that he’d taken from Casper.

Derek makes a rumbling noise in his throat and Isaac slinks away, but Erica pipes up with a whine. Boyd snorts, butts his head against Erica’s.

“You guys make more sense as wolves,” Stiles mutters, rolling his eyes. “Idiots. Alright, I’ll tell you, if you want.”

He picks up the book and waves it a little, and all four sets of ears prick up eagerly, attention fixed unwaveringly on Stiles, who shivers. He knows that, _technically_ , they aren’t really wolves, but there’s still something mildly terrifying about being stared down by four hulking creatures of the night.

“When I was eight,” Stiles says quietly, voice barely audible over the crackle of fire. He isn’t sure that he wants to tell this story, but things are different now. He trusts these idiots. “My mother died. She’d been ill for a while, and she just kept getting weaker and weaker, until one day she couldn’t even lift her head. We had to feed her, carefully, and I knew then that she wasn’t going to get better, but I was only eight. I still needed her, and I wasn’t about to go and let her die, not if there was something I could do.”

He doesn’t know if the wolves can tell which direction the conversation’s going in, but they stay still and quiet regardless, curled up on the grass, watchful eyes trained on Stiles as he talks. Derek licks his hand, once, and Stiles smiles a bit weakly.

“I snuck off to library after library, and I sent out for books on all sorts of subjects, and eventually I learned about magic. They keep it pretty quiet where I’m from, so that nobody’s tempted to go out and learn about it, but I was desperate. I read everything I could find about magic, and I realised that I’d never be strong enough to save her, not in time. Magic takes so long to learn, it’s so complex. It would take too long.”

Derek makes a rumbling noise and trots closer, curling up in front of Stiles and resting his tail on Stiles’ boot. It’s easier to look at the man when he’s like this, when he isn’t a man, when he’s so much _more_ than a man.

“I was going to give up, and then one of my letters hit home, and I learned of a Shadow Market, a place that sold cures of all kinds and special, clever magic, the kind of magic that takes years to perfect. Expensive magic, but I didn’t care back then. The thing was, you can only enter the Market if you have magic in you, if you were training to be a Mage or a Sorceress. So I paid a village Soothsayer to find me a way in, and she told me about this book, mentioned a spell inside that could help.”

He lifts the book off of his lap and studies it miserably. He remembers how it felt bigger back then, in his tiny hands, as he knelt on the rug in his mother’s library and read it furiously, wiping away tears as he searched for a spell.

“As soon as she started to describe it, I knew what it was,” Stiles says. “It was this book, and I’d seen it before, in my mother’s library. I must have walked past it a hundred times, but I had only ever thought that it looked strange. I never thought it was magical. I ran back and found it immediately, and I found the spell I needed. It was one to give you temporary magic, so that you could pass certain rites and rituals, or go to special places, like the Shadow Market. It could only be performed once in a person’s lifetime, and there was a time limit, so I ran to the gates of the Shadow Market, waited until midnight, when it opened, and then I did the spell.”

He swallows slowly. He feels like half of him is here, and half is in the past, shadowing a fourteen-year-old boy as he runs, sprints, soars towards a world hidden away behind a curtain of shadows. Sweat on his hands and his brow, wind blowing across his shaved head, feet pounding against damp cobblestones. It had been a wet night, and he had almost slipped twice, but he had made it eventually, to the gates, and he had held a match up so he could read the words on the page, squinting and panting, and as the last word rushed out of him, the whole world had caught fire.

“I read the wrong spell,” Stiles chokes out, around a mouthful of grief and regret. “I read a spell for unlocking magic, instead of temporarily borrowing it. It turns out I had a spark inside of me the whole time, an untapped potential for magic, and I read the wrong spell and ignited that spark, and all of my magic exploded out into the Shadow Market. It was so painful, like fire on my skin and inside my blood, boiling away everything human. I remember hearing screaming, and then I passed out.”

Derek makes a mournful sound, and then all of the wolves begin to shift, quietly, carefully. Stiles watches with amazement as bones crack back into place and fur shrinks down, becomes smooth, unmarked skin and hard muscle. The weirdest part is the face – Stiles watches Derek’s snout twist and reshape itself into a nose and his teeth remould themselves, everything morphing and changing until he’s greeted with pale skin and stubble and an expression of sorrow.

“Does it hurt?” Stiles whispers, reaching one hand out hesitantly. Derek tenses, but doesn’t move, and Stiles hears the quiet, unanimous inhale behind him, and his fingers dip away, too cautious. Derek watches his hand retreat with an indecipherable look in his eyes, which still glow red.

They haven’t done this, in front of anyone. Desire is his secret, after all, and now Derek shares it.

“It hurts every time,” Derek says hoarsely. “It’s worth it, though. Freeing.”

It’s the most honest thing that Derek’s ever said to Stiles, and he opens his mouth to make a joke, and then he closes it again. He can’t bear to cheapen the moment, however small it is.

“Makes being human feel like we’re trapped in a cage, though, afterwards,” Erica adds, shuddering. Stiles is careful to keep his gaze averted, cheeks flushing even as the others laugh, until they’re all cloaked and dressed.

“You didn’t finish the story,” Isaac says, after a moment of staring into the fire. “What happened?”

Stiles’ smile falls off his face. “A baker found me, brought me to the East Wing. I stayed unconscious for three days, and when I woke up, my mother was dead, and the Shadow Market was gone. I haven’t been able to find it since, or this book.”

There isn’t much to say in the face of that, so they sit there, under the full moon, until they drop off to sleep, slowly, one by one. When Erica starts to snore, Derek shakes Stiles awake and pulls him up, yanking him out of the clearing. Stiles makes a moue of confusion that turns to a sound of delight as Derek shoves him against a tree and kisses him like he’s starving for it.

“Full moons are always intense,” Derek pants against his mouth, as he slots a thigh between Stiles’ legs. Stiles whines, grips at Derek’s shirt and tugs until Derek leans back just far enough to rip it off. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“If it’s a full moon, don’t you need to be with your pack?” Stiles asks, even though he really doesn’t want Derek to leave. “Your wolves?”

“You don’t have to be a werewolf to be a part of a pack,” Derek says, hands gliding over Stiles’ chest. He looks hungry. “And they can take care of themselves.”

“I don’t know if I should be offended by what you’re implying or ecstatic.”

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles gasps, biting at Derek’s lip, rolling it around. “Tent, now. _Now_ , _now_ , _now_.”

Derek laughs a little wickedly, and then hoists Stiles up, forcing Stiles to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist.

“ _Christ_.”

Derek grins. “Close enough.”

It’s fast and rough, but it’s not hasty, and Stiles has to bite on his knuckles to keep from moaning too loudly, a goal which Derek seems to be aiming for in particular. Stiles returns the favour when he blows Derek, smirking up at him from under his lashes, and Derek pinches him when he comes back up for air, trying to scowl but failing.

“Casper told me to ask you something,” Stiles murmurs into the crook of Derek’s elbow, after. He had mashed his face into Derek’s stomach moments ago, and now he’s slowly, gradually moving up Derek’s body, kissing and licking, tired but happy.

“Casper is a meddler,” Derek says, voice softly amused. “What did he want?”

"He said you knew something about learning from the past."

Derek freezes. Stiles can sense that Derek doesn't want to talk about it, maybe will never want to talk about it, so he nudges the conversation along.

“The book I found might have something in it to reverse what I did,” Stiles says, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Derek properly. “It could take away my magic, make me not a Mage. It wouldn’t fix everything, but it would make some things easier. It would make things easier for my family, and my friends. I could go out without people sneering once they realise what I am. People seem to have this way of sensing it.”

“You give out a powerful aura,” Derek murmurs. “I’m not surprised they noticed. I noticed, from the moment I saw you. Is this what you want?”

Stiles puts his head down on Derek’s chest, listens to his heart thump steadily. “I don’t know. Yes, I guess. You said I shouldn’t hate myself, but sometimes hate what I _am_. I hate the way people look at me when they figure it out, the way they treat me like I’m diseased.”

Derek’s hand tightens in Stiles’ hair, and Stiles hesitates. He knows, that despite how far they’ve come, despite the trust and the fondness and the really, really great sex, there’s still a gap that’s yet to be bridged, a gap that’s exactly the same size and shape as Stiles’ magic, as Derek’s prejudice.

“But I also love it,” Stiles mutters softly. “I can do so many things with magic. It’s not the magic itself that’s bad, it’s your intentions. It’s the person who uses it. I told you that I can’t do offensive spells, and I know I did the thing with the fire, but I can do so much more than that, Derek. Look.”

He sits up, straddling Derek, the sheets pooling around him, and focuses carefully on his hand.

A golden shimmer lights up his palm, and then wings unfold, delicately translucent, a mass of veins and thin velvet, and then there are soft, downy feathers, and then a small, sweet noise, like a bell being rung. A golden bird hops across Stiles’ hand, pecks at his finger, still glimmering brightly, radiating soft heat. It’s the colour of sunlight, as it should be.

“Sunlight,” Stiles says, grinning at the euphoric feeling flooding through him. “Sunlight, and it’s alive.”

Derek’s breath hitches.

*

The next day, everything changes.

The next day, the ointment leads them to a cage in the depths of the forest. Stiles is the first one to dive in, breathless with anticipation, his blood singing with the knowledge that _Scott is here, Scott is here, Scott is here_ –

Scott isn’t here.

His blood is, though.

Stiles stares at the manacles attached to the cave wall, thinks about how weak and hurt Scott must have been if he couldn’t fight his way out of them. Scott is strong, a true alpha, a man that was always meant to be a werewolf. Scott is the strongest person Stiles knows.

He takes a step closer and swears, violently. Outside, birds shriek as he lets his anger manifest in magic, in a black, bitterly cold breeze and a flurry of bruised, purple butterflies that peel off of his skin like stickers, fluttering away, the wings thrumming like a swift heartbeat.

“Pretty,” Isaac drawls, but his hand is warm and comforting against Stiles’ shoulder.

“He was right here,” Stiles hisses, raking a hand through his hair. “Right here, where I’m standing, and we missed him. I missed him. I –”

“Miss him?” Isaac guesses, soft. Stiles sags into his touch, a little more resigned. His nose starts to bleed, and one by one, butterflies drop out of the air, dead. Isaac makes a noise of alarm when Stiles wipes his nose, the back of his hand stained red, but Stiles waves him off.

“A lot of magic in a short space of time,” Stiles says dismissively, even as the world tips around him. “I’ll be fine.”

“They must have sensed us coming, whoever they are. There’s another real trail, just a mile north of here,” Derek says, storming into the cave. “It heads towards the coast of the iron sea, as far as Erica can tell. There’s an island out in the centre of it all, and there’s a boat crossing just another mile north of here. If we can commandeer a boat, this will all be over soon.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” Stiles says, taking a wavering step forward. Derek frowns at him, and there’s something wrong about it. He’s been off all morning, stalking around the camp, treating Stiles a little rougher than usual, with a few distracted smiles and one glancing touch. Stiles has been trying not to let it get to him, but it’s difficult, when all he wants to do is let Derek hold him.

For the first time in a while, he’s not sure that Derek would accept it.

Isaac glances between them, his brow furrowing, and then points at the cave entrance.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” he says, and then high-tails it out of there, leaving them in uncomfortable silence. Stiles takes a step forward, and Derek takes a step back, and Stiles stops in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. Derek won’t stop looking at him, but he makes no attempt to move closer, and Stiles has never been more confused.

“I thought we had gotten over this,” Stiles says, numb to the core.

Derek blows out a breath, tugs on his hair. “So did I. I thought it could work, that I could look past what you are, but I don’t know. I don’t _know_ , Stiles, okay? My pack, it comes first, always.”

It’s not at all what Stiles is expecting, and it must show on his face because Derek winces.

“You said that you don’t have to be a werewolf to be part of someone’s pack,” Stiles reminds him, thinking back to last night. “Call me stupid, but I thought that implied something about my status here, or was that just something you wanted to say to when we were fucking, to keep me there?”

Derek winces, his frustration flattening out into a scowl. “I meant everything I said.”

“It really doesn’t fucking sound like it, big guy.”

“Laura thinks it’s time for me to come home,” Derek blurts out, and Stiles straightens up, because _now_ they’re getting to the heart of the matter. He has no idea who Laura is, but it’s obviously someone important to Derek, and come to think of it, the name sounds familiar.

“Laura?” Stiles asks, swallowing. “Is she your girlfriend? Your wife? Because if you’ve been lying, and I’ve been helping you get one over on a girl I don’t even know, I swear to every deity –”

“Laura’s my sister,” Derek says, grimacing. “My older sister. She’s also the current Queen of Serion, the werewolf Kingdom. Our Uncle, Peter, is supposed to be ruling, but he disappeared about a year ago, and she’s been ruling in his stead. I was tasked with finding him, since he’s a little insane.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Insane? Wait, does that make you a Prince? A _Highborn_?”

Derek nods, but he looks a bit miserable. “I’m an Alpha because Laura split the power between us, after our family died. We’re both Alpha’s. Peter was in the same accident as our family, but he survived, and the pain of it made him mad. When he went missing, I promised to put together a Pack and search for him. We’ve been looking for a year.”

“A year,” Stiles echoes, still sort of shocked. He wasn’t expecting any of this, and he certainly wasn’t expecting the torn look on Derek’s face. He wasn't expecting to hear about Derek's family, to hear that they're dead. That's what Caspar meant, Stiles realises, about Derek being able to teach him things. It was about his family.

“What does that have to do with me? With us?”

Derek winces, and Stiles knows, then, that this is crumbling around him.

“Laura wants me to marry a Highborn,” Derek interrupts quietly. “She's found someone for me. She sent me a letter this morning. She thinks it’ll be good for me, and for our Kingdom, if they see me in a healthy, good relationship. I think she’d probably disown me if I wanted to marry a Mage.”

Stiles lets out a bitter laugh, because there it is. That’s exactly what he’s been waiting for, exactly what he’s been praying will never happen.

“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” Stiles says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “All relationships with Mages are _obviously_ unhealthy and doomed from the start, right? There’s no possible way that I could be _good_ for you, is there? And it’s just stupid to think that someone of your high standards could ever lower themselves enough to be seen with someone so unworthy. What do you call Mages, again? Cowards, meddlers, _monsters_. That’s what I am to you, isn’t it?”

Derek makes a frustrated noise. “Of course not. I’m trying to do this _gently_ , Stiles.”

That, more than anything, pisses Stiles off.

“Gentle,” he repeats, in a dead voice. “When have you ever been _gentle_ with me? When has anyone ever been gentle with my kind? Don’t talk down to me, Derek, say what you really think, alright? I don’t need to be _patronised_. I’m a monster, not a child.”

“Stop calling yourself that,” Derek snaps at him, stepping closer, “that’s not what I’m trying to say. It’s just that it wouldn’t be _right_ to tie myself to you. My Pack comes first and so does my Kingdom.”

Stiles gets in Derek’s face, pokes him in the chest. “Listen, Hale, you might be in charge of this mission, but that’s because your snout is superior to mine, not because you’re actually superior to me. We? We are the same. Yes, _yes_ the fucking war was awful and horrendous and yes, the majority of people involved in the war with Mages, and I will go to the grave before I ever defend my kind for what we did.

“I will take responsibility for it if that’s what people want, out of human decency, despite the fact that I wasn’t even born when the war started, but you know what?” Stiles slams a fist against Derek’s chest. “ _You_ weren’t born either. It was years and years ago. You’ve got no reason to hate me except for what the history books tell you, and I have done more to help you than you’ve ever done to help any of my kind. I saved your life, and Erica’s, and all of your lives, actually, and I didn’t ask for _any_ of this.”

“You’re not going to give it back, though, are you?” Derek demands. “I saw the way you looked when you brought that bird to life, Stiles, you looked _happy_. You may not have asked for this, but you’re not going to get rid of it, are you? Tell the _truth_.”

Stiles rocks back on his heels, his hands dropping to his sides. He tips his head back, eyes closed slightly in resignation, and then he takes a step back, and another, and another, putting as much space between he and Derek as possible, until they’re at opposite ends of the cave, and Stiles can no longer see Derek’s wounded, frustrated expression.

Derek doesn’t have any right to be hurt. Stiles is the one hurting here, and maybe it’s his own fault for ever thinking this could be more than a fling, something Derek will regret, but he doesn’t actually give a fuck at the moment.

“Get out,” he says quietly.

“Stiles,” Derek says, softly, but he falls silent when a vivid spark flicks off the end of Stiles’ thumb.

“Get out,” Stiles says again, remarkably calmly.

Derek sighs, and then he leaves, and Stiles sinks to the floor and kicks out at the manacles. _You idiot_ , he tells himself bitterly. _Stupid_ , _hopeful_ _idiot_.

“Why couldn’t you have done that sooner?” Stiles mutters to the empty air. “Why couldn’t you have done that _before_ I fell in love with you, you bastard?”

*

Stiles pours his attention into the little blue book. He tries everything to get the words to pop up on the blank pages, desperate for a cure to what he is. It’s not for Derek (it’s partly for Derek) because Derek is an ass and Stiles couldn’t give a shit about him. No, it’s for him. Stiles doesn’t want this magic, never has, no matter the good he’s been able to do with it. He wants it out of his body and this book is the only possible lead he has.

He tries not to think of the bird, of the flower, of saving someone. He doesn’t want this magic.

He tries every spell he can think of, in between vomiting and trying not to faint, because the dark magic is still there. Bruises start to flare up on Stiles’ skin, big black bruises that make him look like a piece of rotting fruit, and the truth is, Stiles _feels_ like he’s rotting from the inside out. His chest hurts and his hands ache and his legs burn.

“I found someone who can help us with the boat,” Boyd says, as he and Erica walk into their campsite. Derek beckons him over from where he’s putting down the tent, and Boyd goes, glancing at Stiles on the way.

“Something happened,” Erica says, as she drops down on the ground beside him.

“None of your business,” Stiles says shortly. Erica’s silence speaks volumes, and he winces, rubs a hand over his face and puts the little blue book on the grass. “Sorry, I’m in a shitty mood. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Erica waggles her eyebrows. “Maybe you should take it out on Derek instead.”

Stiles snaps his head up to look at her, and her grin fades a little. “You didn’t honestly think you were being subtle, did you? Derek actually smiled a couple of times, so it was pretty simple to work out. You were both freakishly happy for a while, it was disgusting.”

Stiles yanks at a bit of grass, shreds it between his fingers. “Yeah, well, that’s not happening anymore, so you don’t have to worry.”

For a minute, Erica doesn’t say anything, and then she sighs deeply. “That explains why Derek’s so annoyed, too. I did wonder, but I was hoping you’d both work your shit out before I had to involve myself.”

Stiles snorts, gestures to where she’s sat beside him. “And this isn’t involving yourself?”

“This is me telling you that I may not have been in love before, but I do know what it looks like on other people,” Erica says seriously. “I’m good at reading people, and what you have is new, but it’s very strong. Don’t let something stupid get in the way of it becoming something fantastic.”

“That’s up to Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “He’s the one with everything to lose, not me. And actually, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Erica sighs again, and then claps him on the shoulder. “We’re moving again soon. The boat should be ready in an hour. Just think about it, okay?”

Thing is, Erica isn’t wrong. Derek had been happier with Stiles, smiling more and including him in things, even making the odd, deadpan joke. He had been kinder, less gruff, and although Stiles begrudgingly loves that side of Derek too, he loves it more when Derek looks relaxed and happy, when he looks comfortable in his skin.

And Stiles did that. Or at least, he did _part_ of it. He made Derek’s face less angry and more loveable, made him softer, somehow. And Derek made Stiles less wary, less angry, less afraid. They moved together like magnets and in the dark of the night, they whispered to each other, things that Stiles will never forget, things that make him laugh or make his chest tighten.

 _You could tell him_ , whispers the traitorous voice in Stiles’ head. _You’re a Highborn, technically. You’re a secret, but you’re still a Highborn. It might be enough._

It wouldn’t count for anything, though. Scott is set to inherit the Kingdom, now that their parents have married each other. Melissa makes a wonderful Queen, almost as radiant as Stiles’ mother is, and Scott will make an even finer King one day, and just because Stiles was technically the first heir, doesn’t actually make a difference in society, so it won’t make a difference to Derek, or Laura, or Serion.

He might be a Highborn by blood, but in everyone else’s eyes, he’s nothing more than a Mage.

Isaac laughs at something Erica said, and suddenly, Stiles wants nothing more than to get out of this place, get away from this pack. He wants to find Scott now and bring his best friend home, and then he wants to not have to lay eyes on these people ever again.

“You know that we’re walking straight into a trap, don’t you?” Stiles asks, as they reach the coast. The shore is just a strip of brown sand, the tide tucking itself further and further in with every passing second, and Stiles eyes the little boat mistrustfully. He’s not a fan of water, and the island in the distance looks tiny out there among all the blue, so tiny that Stiles has to squint to catch a glimpse of it.

“It’s not even well-disguised,” Erica says, disgusted. “But it’s our best chance at catching Peter, so we have to take it.”

Stiles pauses where he is, one hand on the side of the wooden boat. He half-turns in time to see Erica’s expression freeze, to see the other beta’s wince as Derek growls.

“Excuse me?” Stiles asks softly, dangerously. “Did I hear that incorrectly, or did you say Peter?”

“Erica,” Derek snarls, and Erica sighs.

“He was going to find out sooner or later,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Look, we haven’t been following Scott’s scent. That’s why there were so many misdirection’s. We couldn’t pick up Scott’s scent in the beginning. We’ve been tracking Peter Hale’s scent, Derek’s uncle. He popped up on our radar about two days before your friend, Scott, was bitten by a rogue Alpha. We tracked the scent but didn’t get there in time, and Scott was already turned, and Peter vanished again.”

“Erica,” Derek snarls again, a threat this time, eyes darting between her and Stiles. Stiles doesn’t take his eyes away from the sand at his feet.

“We think that Peter is the one who took Scott,” Erica says, speaking quickly and avoiding Derek’s red eyes. “We approached the King and asked for money and resources to go after him one last time. He gave us gold and you. We’d almost given up, but this is our last chance, and if we’re right, we get to go _home_.”

“And if you’re wrong,” Stiles says quietly, “then my best friend is probably dead, or dying.”

Everyone goes silence. Derek takes a step closer, hand clenching uselessly in the air.

“My best friend could be on the other side of the world right now, dying in some dingy cellar, and he thinks I’m coming after him, but I’m not, because I’m being used as a resource for a bunch of _selfish_ werewolves,” Stiles says, his voice faint but his anger fierce.

“It isn’t selfish to want to go home,” Boyd says calmly, although Stiles can feel the guilt radiating off of him in waves. The sea crashes behind him and Stiles feels like someone slapped him.

“It is when it puts two extra lives in danger!” Stiles shouts, gesturing to himself wildly, and then up at the sky. “His parents are waiting, counting on me! You guys couldn’t fucking stand me before, and you treated me like shit even though you were the ones being cowards, and monsters! _Fuck_ this.”

Erica darts forwards, grabs his shoulders. “He’s in there, Stiles. We told you, we think Peter took him because he bit him, and wants him in his Pack. We found blood in the cave, and yes, it could have been anyone’s, but I believe it was Scott’s, okay? And I promise, we will apologise, but now, we have to get to that island. Just in case he is.”

“That’s not why you want me there,” Stiles says, utterly disgusted. “If you’re going to use me, at least be honest about it. I mean, what else am I good for, right?”

He looks at Derek when he says it, and Derek’s expression breaks open, behind his eyes.

There’s a sudden, violent pain in Stiles’ chest, and he barely makes it to the treeline before he throws up. It retches twice more, chest heaving, his sin shining with sweat, and then he wipes his mouth and straightens up.

“What was that?” Derek demands, stalking closer. Stiles staggers away, his vision growing grey, and swears at Derek, who blinks in surprise.

“Nothing,” Stiles spits out. “Shock. Let’s go.”

“If you’re not well,” Isaac starts, but Stiles just clambers into the boat, face set. After a hesitant moment, everyone piles in, and Derek reaches for the oars. Stiles would offer to help, with his magic, but he’s not sure he’ll make it if he does. He has to save his strength, for when they inevitably need to escape the shit-show that they’re all happily walking – _sailing_ – into.

Halfway across the choppy water, Stiles reaches into his bag, pulls out the little blue book, and throws it into the ocean. It lands with a splash, and then sinks beneath the waves, and Stiles stares directly at Derek, who doesn’t look away.

Fucking asshole.

Stiles is seething, lost and hurt and wondering how he could possibly feel any more bitter, by the time the reach the Island. It’s just a slab of slate-grey rock, but there’s a castle in the middle, made of black stone and crumbling into ruin. He doesn’t know if Scott’s in there, but one thing’s for sur; he’s not helping the wolves with Peter. He’s going to search every inch of the castle, and then he’s going to make a portal, and then he’s going to leave, whether the wolves are with him or not.

He shuts his eyes and pretends he isn’t lying to himself.

*

It’s remarkably easy to find Scott. He splits up from the Pack as soon as they cross the threshold of the castle, stalking down the blackened hallway. It looks like the place has been partially burned down, and the windows are empty of glass, the stones breaking down bit by bit, the floor scuffed and charred. Stiles hears Derek call his name, loudly, but rolls his eyes and stubbornly keeps walking. There’s a soft sigh behind him, the scuff of shoes, and Stiles juts his chin out and refuses to look behind him.

Stiles doesn’t need a babysitter. He can fry whatever comes near him with a flick of the wrist, and that includes Derek Hale, asshole extraordinaire. He stops once, as blood runs down his lips, and wipes at his nose with his sleeve. It comes away stained red, and Derek makes a stifled sound behind him.

“Stiles, you’re sick,” Derek says, biting the words out between a growl. “Just slow down.”

“Apologies,” Stiles says airily. “I don’t talk to dickheads, unless I’m giving myself a pep-talk. And yes, I realise that I just insulted myself, but I was aiming for realism, and I’m upset and bleeding out of my face. I deserve props for just standing up.”

Derek sighs, and Stiles almost punches him. Derek doesn’t have any right to be sighing right now, like Stiles is the one in the wrong. Derek is the stupid one. Derek is the one that’s going to go and marry a nice girl and make his people happy and _Stiles_ is the one that’s going to go back home, lonely, and possibly without his best friend, and live out the rest of his life with only cats and a super long beard as company, and it’s possible that Stiles is a bit whoozy from the blood loss, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that Derek is _sighing_.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, behind him, so quietly that Stiles isn’t sure he’s supposed to hear it. He pretends he didn’t, and walks on.

He finds Scott in the first cell, lying on a bed of wolfsbane. His hands are tied together, shackled to the walls, and his chest is bare and bleeding. He looks completely out of it, but he’s alive, and that’s what matters. Stiles crashes through the cell door and falls to his knees, trying to drag Scott away from the wolfsbane, muttering reassurances under his breath.

Derek clambers in with him and rips the manacles out of the wall before stepping back hastily, eyes fixed on the wolfsbane.

Stiles isn’t strong enough to move Scott on his own, and he knows he’s supposed to keep saving his strength for the portals, but he has to make it outside where there’s room, and he needs Derek’s help. So he frowns and focuses, spreads his hands out, and wills the wolfsbane to sink under the stone. It’s tricky, but eventually it seeps through the cobbles, leaving only a slightly sticky scent behind.

“Stiles?” Scott slurs, his head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me,” Stiles says, looking up at Derek pleadingly. Derek seems to jolt as their eyes meet and then he’s bending down to pick Scott up, staggering a little at the scent that clings to Scott’s body. Stiles takes a moment to breathe, a wave of relief rushing through him – _he’s found Scott, he’s alive, they’re going home_ – and then freezes in shock when he realises that he can’t move his arm. This is it, he realises. This is him breaking down. This is the dark magic winning.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, from the doorway. “We need to go. I can hear Erica yelling.”

“Yeah, I just need to…”

He staggers upright, one arm swinging loosely, the other raised to his head. He’s going to pass out any minute now, he knows it.

There’s a high-pitched scream from somewhere upstairs, and it slams through both of them, and then there’s a figure in the doorway, forcing Derek back inside.

“Uncle Peter, I presume?” Stiles asks, breath wavering slightly. He’s already feeling around for his last dregs of energy, thinking clearly of the castle courtyard. He can see it as clear as day, white stone and beds of beautiful flowers, the castle rising up ahead of him, the town spread out behind him.

“Peter,” Derek growls. “Don’t touch him.”

“It’s him that I’m after,” Peter says silkily. He looks wild, all beard and matted hair, blood on his chest and in his teeth, his eyes a crazed, rust brown colour. His voice is like velvet draped over rocks, and Stiles flinches.

“Stiles,” Peter breathes. “Scott talked about you. About what you are. About your power. I knew I had to have that, in my pack, beneath me, at my beck and call. How does it feel, Stiles, to have the world at your fingers? All of that power just waiting for you to unleash it, how does it feel?”

“Pretty good,” Stiles says drily, and then he slams his working hand forward, and a wall of rock arches up and slams into Peter.

Peter goes flying back into the wall with a snarl, the cell door splintering into pieces as the rock wall collides with it, and then crumbles to dust.

“You’ll regret that,” Peter snaps, and then he’s lunging, and Stiles pulls every last drop of energy out of him and throws it into a portal. The room’s too small and he knows it will break, and he hears the beta’s voices, hears Derek’s alpha roar, the one that shakes his soul.

Purple light invades his view, and then he sees the warm kaleidoscope of brown and green and blue – Derek – and that’s the last thing he sees.

*

Stiles opens his eyes to find Derek sitting at the end of his bed. The East Wing of the castle is quiet and dimly-lit, orange lanterns attached to the walls, casting a warm glow over the small white cots and the stone cobbles. All of the other beds are empty, and there’s a curtain drawn around Stiles.

He aches all over, and he’s actually alive, which is a shock, but none of that matters because Derek is right there, at the end of Stiles’ bed, wearing clean clothes and looking, for all the world, like a gift from above. Stiles has grown used to this feeling of warmth whenever he looks at Derek, whenever he notices the sharp line of his jaw or the smattering of stubble or how soft his black hair looks. Those eyes, too, are something to be treasured. And that ass, if Stiles is honest.

So he’s used to the feeling, and the noticing, and the hoping, but he’s not used to Derek sitting up straight when he realises Stiles is awake, isn’t used to the way his eyes widen with relief and an agonising amount of pain, his mouth parted as he exhales softly. Stiles doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he stays where he is for a moment, drinking in the silence before he gets the courage up to speak.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, his voice crackling.

“You’re awake.”

Stiles snorts. “So it would seem.” He tries to sit up, but his arms give out before he even puts pressure on them, and he flops back against the cushions with a grunt of annoyance. “How long have I been asleep? What happened?”

Derek’s hand finds its’ way to Stiles ankle, squeezes briefly. It’s such a barely-there touch that it shouldn’t affect Stiles at all, but he still shivers, still pushes into the feeling.

“You passed out as soon as the portal closed,” Derek explains, eyebrows furrowing. Stiles has never heard him this quiet before. “You were standing there, one minute, holding onto Scott, and then the portal closed up and you just dropped to the floor. We tried waking you up, but we couldn’t, so we brought you here.”

Stiles nods slowly. He remembers, vaguely, the feeling of falling, and then his memory turns to silver and haze.

“Too much magic,” he lies. “Must have overdone it a little.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

Stiles bites his lip, fidgets on the bed. “Where’s Scott? Is he alright?”

He’s forgotten to be angry. He’s forgot to be shocked. He tries, for a minute, but the feeling doesn’t come.

“He’s resting, but he’s fine,” Derek says. “You’ve been out for a few days, which was long enough for him to heal once he was away from the wolfsbane. I think he’s planning on coming to see you this evening. The King’s been here a few times, too, and the Queen. I wasn’t here when they saw you, but they were upset when they left. The King didn’t leave your bed for a whole day.”

Stiles nods, feels a flood of love for his Dad, lets the silence stretch until it’s just short of awkward. He’s not ashamed, exactly, but he does feel a bit stupid, thinking he could do that much magic at once without almost killing himself.

"The magic," Stiles says. "The dark magic. Where did it go?"

Derek sighs, taps Stiles' arm, the one that had stopped working. There's a bandage on it, and he can move it now, but it feels sore.

"Peter managed to bite you, on the arm," Derek says, looking guilty. "He got past us, bit you, and then Boyd tore him off just as your portal exploded. We're not sure, but we think whatever was killing you from the inside, the dark magic, it went into him through the bite, instead of turning you. It's gone now. Peter's alive, but even more insane than he was before."

 _Balance_ , Stiles thinks, nodding slowly. It makes sense.

“You almost died,” Derek says.

“But I didn’t,” Stiles says.

“But you _could_ have.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’d do it all over again. I’d still take that dark magic away from Erica, no matter how many times I had to do it over and over. She would have died that day, if I hadn’t.”

“She’s pissed at you for that, by the way,” Derek says lightly, a small, fond smile spreading across his face. “Grateful, and I think she cried a bit, but that just made her more pissed off once she stopped.”

“Great,” Stiles says, sighing. “I’m going to get punched, aren’t I? Well I guess that’s what I get for being a hero.”

Derek snorts, and Stiles is alarmed to find that he sounds a little hysterical. His eyes widen as Derek shuffles forward on the bed, moving until he’s looming over Stiles, jaw clenched against any kind of emotion. One hand comes up to cradle Stiles’ cheek, a callused thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone. There’s another hand on his hip, just holding him, grounding him.

“What are you doing?” Stiles croaks out. “You’re very close. Not that I’m complaining, in the face of all that stubble. When’s the last time you shaved?”

“I was a little preoccupied with worrying about you.”

Stiles swallows back a cocky comment, a bit bewildered, and more than a bit wary.

“Derek, this can’t …” He clears his throat, unfairly distracted by the thumb now tracing his jawline. “You said it yourself, this can’t happen. Don’t – don’t _do_ this if you’re just going to go home at the end of the day. And I’m still pissed at you. Like, really pissed, and kind of hurt, and I want to punch your stupid face but I’m too tired.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Derek promises him, voice deep and slightly guttural. It’s enough to make Stiles snap his mouth shut in surprise, and then he’s frowning and trying to sit up, ignoring the way Derek pushes at his shoulders.

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asks sharply, propping himself up on his elbows.

“I sent a letter to Laura,” Derek says. “I’m not going home, not yet. The Kingdom only needs one marriage, and she’s found someone that she wants to marry, some blacksmith that probably isn’t good enough for her –”

Stiles laughs, shaking his head as something warm and hopeful blooms in his chest.

“Even if she hadn’t found someone, I wouldn’t be going back. The Pack have gone home,” Derek says, watching him carefully. “They took Peter home, and they’re staying for a few days, and then they’re coming here, and they’re going to spend about two weeks grovelling for your forgiveness for what they did. What we all did. Lying to you, that was wrong. And using you for what you are but hating you for it at the same time, that was wrong, too. And what I said after Laura contacted me, that was wro –”

Stiles slaps a hand over Derek’s mouth. “If you want to list all of the things you’ve done wrong since I met you, then we’ll be here all week.”

Derek’s mouth twitches against Stiles’ palm.

“I’m still mad,” Stiles says, and he remembers his anger again, and it’s still simmering, but it’s too exhausting to keep up.

“And I’m still sorry,” Derek says, taking hold of Stiles’ wrist gently and kissing his knuckles. Stiles blinks at him, head a little hazy. “And I’m mad about you being ill, all that time, and not telling me, but we have plenty of time to work on your self-worth. What did you call it? A complicated thing?”

Stiles grimaces. “A lot of things about me are complicated. Being a Mage is complicated, Derek. I’m not changing what I am, not for anyone, not even for you. If you have a problem with that then you can deal with it. The whole damn world can deal with it.”

Derek squeezes his fingers. “I think that was implied, when you threw the book in the ocean.”

Stiles groans, pitches forward to lay his head on Derek’s chest. “I regret my dramatic action already. There were probably a hundred really priceless spells in that, and now it’s at the bottom of the sea.”

Derek laughs into his hair, and they stay like that for a moment.

“And what about you?” Stiles asks quietly, into the silence. “You’re not going home? What if they need you? Pack comes first, after all.”

“It does,” Derek agrees. “That’s why I’m staying here, with you. You obviously need someone around just to make sure you don’t do anything even more stupid, and I get the feeling that Scott is more of an enabler than anything.”

“That’s what best friends are for,” Stiles says, grinning. Derek’s mouth is inches away, and the darkness in his chest is gone, and he feels light, the anger drifting away. They still have things to deal with, and a little bit of trust to repair, and a lot of talking needs to be done, but for now, Stiles is pretty happy with this. The bridges are bent, not broken.

Derek makes a thoughtful noise. “What are partners for, then?”

Stiles grins, leaning in. “This, mostly.”

It’s a soft kiss, hands cradling Stiles face and stroking his skin, Stiles gripping Derek’s elbow, sliding his other hand around to the back of Derek’s neck, carding his fingers through the short hair there, grinning when Derek shivers. It’s different, warm, the feel of lips sliding together is overwhelming, and then Stiles bites a little bit on Derek’s bottom lip and it becomes hotter, slicker, like every other kiss they’ve ever shared, only without the bitterness, or the desperation that always tempered those moments.

This is just for them, for this moment, right here.

Stiles pulls back after a moment, breathing hard, and is gratified to see that Derek looks just as wrecked as he feels, pupils blown wide and mouth parted, wet.

“That was nice,” Stiles says lowly. “Let’s do that, every day, for the rest of our lives.”

“One of your less ridiculous ideas,” Derek teases, nuzzling his way down Stiles’ neck.

“Wait a minute,” Stiles says, a thought striking through the happy fog in his mind. “This isn’t just because you’ve found out I’m a Highborn, is it?”

Derek jerks back, almost falls off the bed. “ _What_?”

“That’s a no, then,” Stiles says, nodding firmly, and then he drags Derek back into another kiss before Derek can demand an explanation.

They have the rest of their lives for explanations, after all.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da? I hope that was okay! I hope you liked it :) Please feel free to leave a comment or a kudos, I would really appreciate any feedback!  
> Love you guys!  
> Find me @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr, or @cococranberries on Twitter! Come and talk! :)


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